


The Things They Don't Tell You in Med School

by Rose_of_Pollux



Series: October 2020 writing challenge [12]
Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Gen, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: [Snapshot] When London's many demands spreads the team too thin, Wilson is left to deal with the aftermath.
Series: October 2020 writing challenge [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981039
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	The Things They Don't Tell You in Med School

**Author's Note:**

> This is a snapshot written for the “Field Medicine” prompt for this year’s Whumptober challenge. A prompt like that was tailor-made for the fandom’s favorite medic, so this happened…

“Right, tell me, Wilson,” Newkirk snarked, as their medic now bandaged his side. “Just ‘ow bad is it?”

“You appear to be suffering from two bruised ribs, numerous cuts and bashes, a sprained ankle, and an incredibly high level of exhaustion,” Wilson returned.

“Welcome to the war, Mate,” Newkirk returned. He winced in pain as he got to his feet. “Cor…!”

“I recommend two weeks’ rest,” Wilson cautioned. “No less than a week. That means no unnecessary movement or strenuous activity. I’ll tell Colonel Hogan to see if he can fabricate some story to Klink that’ll let you stay in bed for as long as possible. Here, take these back…”

He handed Newkirk his undershirt, his uniform top, and uniform jacket.

“Ta. Blimey, Wilson, I wish women could ‘andle me ‘alf-dressed even a fraction as often as you do.” Newkirk paused as he thought it over. “…Pity, that, innit?”

Wilson rolled his eyes, but his expression softened as, rather than struggle his way upstairs, Newkirk instead crossed to the bench in the tunnel where his other teammates were recovering from their post-mission patch-up. Newkirk sat between LeBeau and Carter; Carter gave him a weary look, and LeBeau kept his eyes shut but acknowledged Newkirk’s presence with quiet grunt.

“And how long are you out for?” Kinch asked from LeBeau’s other side. A few bandages were visible on him, covering some minor scrapes and cuts.

“Week. Maybe two,” Newkirk said.

“That’s not so bad—could’ve been worse,” Carter sighed, leaning back against the wall of the tunnel for support. “Boy, I’m just so tired more than anything.”

“How nice,” LeBeau mumbled. “As for me, even my poor bruises have bruises. I should be decorated by a general for this.”

“Keep dreaming, Little Mate,” Newkirk said. “That skirmish we got into was nothing compared to what those poor blokes dealt with…”

He glanced across the tunnel at some other benches; Olsen was lying on one of them, with a bandage around his leg after having been grazed by a bullet. On a second bench was Thomas, sitting with his shirt open, and several freshly-stitched wounds were visible on his torso. Beside him sat Baker and Garlotti, each of them sporting similar bandages around their upper right arms.

“They ‘ad it far worse, and what’s more, they ain’t even used to it like we are,” Newkirk sighed.

LeBeau opened his eyes and took a brief look—and had to look away after seeing the blood on Olsen’s leg bandages. He then mumbled something in French—Wilson didn’t know what it was, but it was clearly some oath against their enemies.

“Hear, hear,” Kinch sighed.

Wilson sighed to himself and was putting his equipment away when Colonel Hogan now climbed down the ladder into the tunnel.

“Wilson, what’s the damage?” he asked.

“The short answer is that they’ll all live, but if London doesn’t let up, it won’t be for that much longer,” he said, bluntly.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Hogan replied. “I’ve already given London enough of an earful that it just might cost me my promotion if we ever make it out of here. It wasn’t enough that they spread us out so thin that we had to send the reserves out…” He sighed and glanced at Olsen, Baker, Garlotti, and Thomas. “They didn’t tell us there’d be an aerial maneuver—and when they claimed that they’d tried to send a message on the radio, I had to point out that the reason no one was manning the radio was because they’d ordered so much to be done in such a short amount of time, _both_ of our radiomen were out there!”

There’d been some low-level strafing out in the woods as the British Spitfires had encountered enemy planes —exactly who had been responsible for strafing too low had not been determined on account of how quickly everything had happened. Olsen had gotten shot and Thomas had gotten hit by shrapnel as the remains of a downed plane had landed not too far from them; Garlotti and Baker had been fortunate enough to have only gotten hit with a few pieces of shrapnel as they’d attempted to shield themselves with their arms.

Hogan now looked to his core team. Their sorry state had been on account of a desperate getaway from an enemy patrol. Carter had been the first to sense trouble, and after giving a quick warning, he had tackled Kinch out of the way as the patrol opened fire in their general direction, having thought they’d heard movement in the trees. Newkirk had done the same for LeBeau—but the two corporals had gone tumbling into a ravine, and Newkirk had landed on his side on a rock.

The downed plane falling some distance away had quickly captured the patrol’s attention, causing them to leave, and the four had struggled their way back to Stalag 13—finding out only later as to what the reserve team had been through that night.

“We’re going to have to find some way to explain Olsen’s leg wound,” Wilson said. “Thank God it’s superficial. Thomas should be fine as long as no one sees his stitches. And Garlotti and Baker were shielding themselves and had been far away enough to avoid the worst of it, but I think they might be a little shell-shocked from the ordeal.” He glanced at the core team now. “Carter must’ve been born under a lucky star—either that, or he’s got some sort of a sixth sense to have reacted in time. They’d have been sniped if he hadn’t sensed danger a moment before. He and Kinch got off the easiest—for them, the exhaustion is more dangerous than their bruises. LeBeau got it a bit worse aside from the exhaustion, but not as bad as it could’ve been—with him, it’s his inability to stand the sight of blood that’s keeping him from moving. I’m still trying to figure out how a claustrophobic chef with a fear of blood ended up in the French Air Force.”

“Same reason why a doctor in the first year of his residency would get drafted into the Air Corps instead of the Medical Corps,” Hogan intoned.

“…Touché, Sir,” Wilson said. “I really do wonder what I’m doing here sometimes. Anyway, Newkirk is the one that got battered the most—two bruised ribs, and all of the bumps and scrapes from his tumble into the ravine. I told him two weeks of rest, but knowing him, that won’t stick—one week of him sitting still is the best we can hope for.”

“I’d take offense to that if it wasn’t for it being ruddy true…” Newkirk quietly protested.

“Fellas…” Hogan said. “I don’t know how much of a reprieve I can convince London to give you, but I’ll try my hardest to get them to lay off for a while.”

“Sir, if something needs to be done, then we need to do it,” Carter said, raising his head up slightly. “If not us, then who?”

Kinch, Newkirk, and LeBeau grunted in agreement; even the reserves made weak noises of assent, as well.

“You can’t take on missions if you’re dead,” Hogan returned. “…And you all look halfway there already.” There was a flash of guilt in his eyes, knowing that he’d had a relatively easy time of it, distracting Klink in his quarters with a chess game smokescreen while his men were out getting shot at.

It was one of the times when it really sunk in just how much he hated the war—hated this _place_.

“Well, we aren’t there yet, Sir,” Kinch pointed out, jolting him out of his thoughts.

“And I’m going to see that you don’t get there,” Hogan said. “All of you, make your way to the barracks—I’ll help those who can’t make it on their own. I want you all to rest—and _that’s_ an order.”

They mumbled in response, but slowly made their way up into the barracks—Olsen and Newkirk getting the help they needed from Hogan and some of the others. Finally, when they were all in their bunks, Hogan paused as Wilson now emerged from the tunnel, as well.

“I’ll keep an eye on them, Sir,” he promised.

“And what about you? How are you holding up?” the colonel asked. “This whole thing is causing the exhaustion to catch up with you, too—I can tell. You’re as drained as they are.”

Wilson shrugged.

“I’m handling it, Sir.”

Hogan’s expression softened.

“Wilson, look… If it ever gets to be too much, I can pull some strings and get you sent along the route to London. I can even recommend a transfer to the Medical Corps, maybe even an honorable discharge so you can return to civilian practice.”

“…I’d be lying if I said those haven’t crossed my mind as enjoyable alternatives,” Wilson admitted. “But then I think about everything those guys are doing out there. Some days, I think about Hercules.” He paused for a moment to inwardly sigh, thinking about the one and only patient he had ever lost during his time as Stalag 13’s medic. “It’s like Carter says—if not us, then who?”

Hogan didn’t seem to have an answer; he just clapped Wilson on the shoulder, taking one more look at the medic’s weary, exhausted form.

“Physician, heal thyself,” he said, at last.

“Is that an order, too, Sir?” Wilson asked, half-jokingly.

“Since you asked, yes.”

Wilson nodded good-naturedly as Hogan now headed for his quarters. The colonel paused at the door, looking back.

“I’ll say this for you—all of you,” he added, pausing until he got his men’s attention. “You all make this Godforsaken war bearable.”

With that, the colonel retired to his quarters, and Wilson made one last round among his patients, making sure that they were resting before pausing to allow himself the chance to rest, as well.

Tomorrow would be another day—hopefully, a better one.


End file.
